


The Immediate Threat of Frostbite

by sparklefraggle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklefraggle/pseuds/sparklefraggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus is privately dramatic on a mountainside, and also constantly. Takes place after Haven's fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Immediate Threat of Frostbite

The cold is relentless, and the landscape seems so broad and so unending that Dorian Pavus feels like an insect in a colony of other insects crawling along the snowy bedclothes of an unwitting giant who, at any moment, would realise and slap a hand down and scatter them all. But then, all those mournful southern ballads, those ancient laments with their simplistic, monotonous, plodding rhythms, had to be writing about something.

He supposes this was it.

And here they are now, retreating through legends' great corridors.

It's a point of pride for Dorian that he has gone this many days -- weeks, even -- without missing Tevinter.

And when it comes, it's an inevitability. It's Fucking Cold, as said, which is an inexcusable circumstance of boots sinking into snow as far as his knees, and the wind carrying knives to slice at where his armor exposes his skin, which goes ruddy beneath the assault, and no shelter in sight save for the word of an un-inked elf who himself seems none too concerned about being indoors as a general rule. Word murmurs through this miserable pilgrimage that says they need to make camp, _again_ , and in that moment, he remembers: the balcony on his room in that one northernmost estate that faces the sun-soaked afternoons, limning white marble in gold.

"Oh, _stop_ it," is something he does not say out loud, but is articulated in the way he stakes the snowy ground with the blunt of his staff.

Still. A point of pride, as he hadn't missed Tevinter when, for example, that one barmaid in the (endless, sprawling, bear-infested, [and the demons are a nuisance too]) Hinterlands had refused his coin the second time he patronised her bartop, as word had finally spread about the evil magister slinking about Haven, shadowing the Herald's more noble steps. Magisters are good at recognising power, is the excuse they'll slather over the unlikelihood of one joining the Inquisition in earnest, as if they'd met any personally. You know, if they're not assuming he's a spy, somehow slipped past Leliana's guard.

No, in that moment, and moments such as that, he hadn't missed Tevinter at all. What remarks and behaviours weren't entirely deserved were often laughably ignorant. No, it's taken him the razing of a town, a fire-breathing archdemon, and a very naughty Darkspawn indeed driving them into the glacial climbs of the Frostbacks with nothing but the clothes on their own frosty backs to have him afford the slightest twinge of nostalgia in the face of the Fucking Cold.

Not too shabby, eh?

Campfires begin to spring up. From the sky's perspective, the constellation of roaring firepits scattered down the mountainside slope probably seem as remote and chilly as the stars do themselves, and Dorian has yet to find a suitable log on which to perch his freezing arse. People huddle, friends and comrades, or strangers who are becoming such, and probably they would settle aside for him, and if his presence somehow killed the conversation that was likely boring to begin with, he'd liven it again as needed, just like he would keep the flames roaring with a flick of his hand. And they would like him.

For whatever reason, he continues to pace, homeless and wandering. He could probably get away with situating himself amongst the upper echelons of the Inquisition's order rather than tolerate the rabble, his recent good deeds in dragging the Herald out of a dystopic future still fresh enough in their minds, and his perspectives and his information still untapped. But Dorian is good with money, in that he is good at having it, spending it, and gambling with it, and recognises a finite currency when he sees it.

"You're not feeling sorry for yourself, are you?"

The deep rumble of that voice is distinctive enough that Dorian needn't turn around, not to mention the way it seems to happen somewhere two feet taller than he is. There's a little unkind thought that quips he could smell the Qunari coming, too, but it's not very witty, nor very true. All he smells is wood smoke and ice. "Someone must," he says, without looking back at the Qunari. He is looking at the stars, and chooses to continue. "But don't bother offering to share the load; I have it well enough in hand."

"I figured." By now, the Iron Bull is standing abreast, and declines to match Dorian's upwards stare -- his is level, from his vantage point, regarding the incline of mountainside that the Inquisition has claimed. It's very open. But they hadn't much choice. "Don't worry about it, Vint. The real adventure's still coming."

"And what're you talking about now?"

"You did notice the craggy darkspawn asshole on your way out, right? Hard to miss, with that dragon he's got. Still needs killing. It's gonna be great."

Steam escapes Dorian in a huff of a laugh. "Really? You give me far too much credit. I'm much more concerned about the more immediate threat of frostbite and whether the first things to drop off will be my fingers or my nose if left unattended."

"Yeah? I hear it's your balls that go first."

"Oh, fantastic."

"That's what I hear."

He could be mistaken, but is that a curl of dry humour detectable in the big brute's voice? He tilts a look upwards and aside, and the scarred profile of the Qunari in the darkness gives nothing away. The eyepatch doesn't help. "I'll be sure to let you know should the worst come to pass, but I suspect I'll be just fine." Raising his hand, he allows flames to dance along the edge of his palm, up to his fingertips, before vanishing with a hiss of steam. _A real magister can't walk across the room without casting a spell._

It'll be another point of pride -- two points of pride in one evening! will wonders ever cease -- that he doesn't startle when the Qunari's big hand comes up like a crocodile opening its maw and clamps a hold over Dorian's outstretched fingers. His eyes widen, enough to show the complete rings of grey in white if anyone were looking, and no one is, not the least of which being Iron Bull, who turns Dorian's hand over in his in a simple display of subtle strength that has Dorian believing he could probably just peel the appendage like a banana if he wanted to study if his bones had fire too.

There's a grunt of some mysterious conclusion arrived to, before Iron Bull releases him. Dorian draws back his hand like a rabbit down a hole. "You might have asked," clips testy from his mouth, sharply bitten off. Rattled, more than he wants to admit, but the beady little eye not covered by a patch blows perception through him like the mountain winds.

"Yeah," Iron Bull agrees, calm and unflappable in the face of prissing. "You want to join us?"

"What?"

One big arm sweeps a gesture towards where a firepit is set up some distance behind them. It's the Tevinter man, Iron Bull's loyalist, poking at the flames, who only glances over at them, otherwise occupied in the difficult task of keeping it going in the harsh cold, the snow. "We could use a little showmanship," Iron Bull says. "And you could use your balls."

"I'll beg you not to worry overmuch about my balls, Iron Bull. The association will likely have them seek their own refuge all on their own."

That draws a crooked smile from the Qunari, before he turns to trudge back to his man and his fire, leaving Dorian behind. He stands there, in the Fucking Cold, pondering after his own stupid indecision. He doesn't have to look very hard; it runs like a warped thread in a tapestry, a crack in a glossy mirror, a run seaming up a woman's tights, scarring through him inescapably that he wouldn't -- shouldn't -- be caught dead sitting with a Qunari and a soporati slave-son.

Ha. 

With one final glance towards where the night is stealing away the formidable shapes of the Frostback Mountains from view, Dorian picks up his staff, and follows the larger footprints Iron Bull has laid in the snow.


End file.
